


poised on the edge of the world

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Shot, Polar Research Stations, Strangers to Friends, Technically the end of the world but happier than that sounds, They're all scientists not sailors, and for technical reasons it's set in antarctica, just go with it ok, possibly inaccurate technological terms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-01 11:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18334148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Ten months ago, the world outside of Terror Research Station went silent. Whether it's the end of the world or his nagging fear of those around him, Edward Little finds himself picking up the pieces of his life, hoping for the best.





	poised on the edge of the world

**Author's Note:**

> First, this AU is inspired by _Good Morning, Midnight_ by Lily Brooks-Dalton. It is technically a post-apocalyptic book, but it shies from the usual tropes of that genre by choosing some unique POVs. It's a beautiful book, and I highly recommend it.
> 
> Also, it's set in Antarctica, and since there are also zero British polar stations in the Arctic, I'm yanking the Terror crew far south for this AU.

His head aches. The pain has long moved from his temples to behind his eyes to the nape of his neck and into the tendons of his shoulders. He straightens every five minutes (or so he tries), grimacing when his lower back pinches and the stiffness in his hip joints complains. The rest of his body is numb as he sits, hunched over the table, one hand pressing the headphones to his ear, the other carefully sliding the dial from one station to another.

In his two years at the Terror Antarctic Research Station, Edward Little has never heard the radio channels so deathly silent, and the implications of that frighten him. Ten months ago, as quiet and unassuming as a cloudy sunrise, the station’s radios stopped picking up noise. There was some chatter from neighboring stations, miles away, their staff also voicing confusion over the sudden shift in the air. When some of the scientists at Terror looked to the Internet for answers, there was only the usual days old articles about increasing tension between world powers, brittle negotiations over UN-sanctioned peace talks, and nothing in more recent hours. A week later, entire sites were down, and the webpages that eked out a dying existence presented nothing more than a digital cemetery of human vanity.

The crew at Terror, thanks entirely to Professors Crozier’s and Fitzjames’s calm reassurances, avoid hysteria by continuing their research and day-to-day duties. Edward and Irving continue to track the recordings from the station’s large radio telescope aimed at space. Le Vesconte and Silna keep collecting and archiving samples for biological and geological research. Diggle—with the young intern Hartnell—keeps the cafeteria a warm and comforting environment with three prompt meals a day, a cup of tea or coffee always a minute from warming the palm of your hand. Blanky and Peglar maintain the upkeep of their fishing trawlers, and it had been a highlight during the bright winter months when the pair brought back fresh fish for dinner. Drs. Goodsir and MacDonald  keep the medbay one of the cozier corners of the station, and frequently one can find Collins or Bridgens taking a break from their daily schedule to relax in the old armchairs with Harry or Alex, laughing over some retelling of their staff’s misadventures on the ice or with the local (and cantankerous) penguin population.

Normality has become a precious commodity, and only deep in one’s private thoughts are there speculations about what has happened to the rest of the world—and if there is much of a world left. Sometimes, there are whispered conversations in private, the desire to speak aloud their predicament, to somehow make the end of civilization as they know it more tangible or real. Some nights the halls in the dorm are filled with muffled sobbing and the loud, anxious thoughts that always accompany insomnia. There are friends among the staff, some family, spouses even, but all of them had families and homes to lose outside of Antarctica.

It has been ten agonizing and long months. Edward can no longer stand the chatter from space and frequently retires to the comm tower where the radio sits, and there he sits for hours, his back sore and eyes tired. The thick glass of the windows afford a small view of the surrounding landscape, but at the peak of summer, there is only darkness and the glowing lights of surrounding buildings.

He realizes that his mind has wandered and he picks up the headphones again, pressing them against his ear, listening through the static for anything as he, again, slowly turns the knob of the radio. Sometimes, he’ll speak into the radio’s microphone, with the date, his name and position, the name of the station, and the ever hopeful question _Is anyone out there_? Tonight, however, his throat feels swollen, and he doesn’t think he can tolerate the scratching croak of his voice.

There is a triple knock at the room’s small door. Edward flinches but manages to catch the falling headphones before they hit the floor. He didn’t hear anyone’s footsteps on the creaking stairs.

The door pushes open, and Professor Crozier’s assistant Thomas Jopson presses against the door with his shoulder as he precariously balances two paper coffee cups and a foiled-covered plate in his hands.

There is a small grin on Jopson’s face as he lifts up the plate.

“Hey,” he says by way of greeting, “Brought you some dinner.”

Edward blinks, slow to react to the last person he would have expected to see coming into the comm tower. He, of course, knows Jopson. Everyone at the station does. As Professor Crozier’s assistant, the man is a constant presence. Edward isn’t entirely sure what the man’s job is, other than prompt and efficient professionalism. He knows that Crozier leans heavily on the young man, and Jopson is a never failing wall of support.

Jopson places the plate on the table in front of the radio. He then sets down one of the coffee cups by the plate, keeping one of the cups in his hands, wrapping both palms around it as he sits down in the second, unoccupied folding chair.

Edward finally shakes himself out of his reverie, nodding slightly to Jopson.

“Thanks,” he manages, as he peels back the tin foil to find plastic cutlery lodged against a square of lasagna and a side of mixed vegetables.

Jopson burrows more into his parka, holding his cup close to his face. “It’s so cold in here. How can you stand sitting up here for hours?”

Edward shrugs, the chill of the comm tower room something that he is long accustomed to. He places the headphones on their stand and slides the plate of food closer.

“Did Crozier send you?” he asks, curious, if a bit embarrassed.

Jopson is caught mid-sip, and his shoulders hunch as he hurriedly sets the cup back down while giving a small shake of his head.

“Uh, no,” he says, his eyes looking out at the blackness beyond the windows instead of Edward’s face. “I haven’t seen you in the cafeteria for the last few days. Wanted to make sure you’re still eating.”

Edward stares at Jopson, a second longer than he intended, and to avoid the weird twisting sensation in his chest, he starts to cut into a corner of the still warm lasagna.

“I didn’t mean to cause worry,” he mumbles around the bite. He glances around fruitlessly for his watch. The clock on the wall has stopped working weeks ago. “What time is it anyway?”

Jopson hums.  “Almost 21:30.”

Edward nods and continues to eat the food in silence, Jopson sitting at his elbow and taking the occasional sip from his cup. Once Edward scrapes the last of the vegetables off the plate, he remembers the second coffee cup and picks it up. Jopson turns from the window to watch Edward curiously.

When Edward takes a sip, he’s surprised to taste not coffee or tea, but hot chocolate. He pauses, but once the initial shock passes, he can’t help the tiny smile on his face as he takes another drink.

He notices Jopson watching him, his eyes earnest and glittering. Jopson clears his throat and smiles, his gaze moving to the floor.

“I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee,” he explains. “I hope that’s okay.”

There is warmth, an unfurling bloom that seeps into every crevice of his chest and neck. Edward immediately brushes it aside as heat from the beverage.

“Yes, it’s fine,” he replies, his growing smile hidden by the lip of the cup.

They both finish their cup, comfortable but unspeaking, and for the first time in months, Edward is not concerned about the radio. The fluorescent lamp hanging from the ceiling flickers, and Edward knows that he’ll need to replace its batteries soon. He wonders in the back of his mind how Irving has been handling the radio telescope and guiltily tells himself that he should check up with him in the morning.

They are sitting close enough that Jopson’s knee is a hair breadth away from his—a distance so minute that Edward feels something near electric from the closeness of their limbs. It ends when Jopson clears his throat and stands, masking a yawn.

“I’m turning in. Professor Crozier wants me to join him and Blanky in the morning to check one of cranes outside. You should get some rest, too,” he says as he gathers the plate and his cup. “And _that_ is a suggestion from Crozier. He doesn’t want one of his best staff members running themselves ragged.”

Shame burns behind Edward’s cheeks as he realizes that his absence has gotten Crozier’s (and by proxy Jopson’s) attention.

“I will, thanks,” Edward mumbles, not quite able to look Jopson in the eye.

Edward finishes the last of his drink when Jopson gives him a nod, another one of his small, close-lipped smiles before crossing the narrow room to the exit.

“Have a good night,” Edward calls out to Jopson’s retreating back.

Jopson’s head twists back at him. His eyes are wide, eyebrows raised, but his face quickly smooths into a smile, wider than before so that there was a sliver of teeth and the slightest indentation in his cheeks.

“You, too,” he replies easily before closing the door behind him.

The warmth from earlier has spread to his every limb, igniting each finger and toe, and for a brief second, Edward forgets what it feels like to be cold.

The next day, he is less surprised when Jopson shows up again, earlier than the night before, this time with two plates and the cups in a cardboard tray better to balance on one’s arm. Edward doesn’t stop the smile that blooms on his face while Jopson grins back at him.

“So I hear from Irving that you helped him with the telescope today,” Jopson says as he pulls forward his chair, his tone light. “Nice to see you’ve rejoined the living.”

Edward finds it easy to joke back, “I needed to be sure that he hadn’t broken it while I was away.”

Jopson’s laugh is music to Edward’s ears, and he wonders how he lasted as long as he did, escaping to the comm tower and cutting himself off the others at the station. Though if he had not sequestered himself, he wonders if would have ever noticed Jopson the way he does now.

Thus the pair of them fall into a rhythm. In the morning and day hours, Edward returns downstairs to the rest of the station, much to Crozier’s and his other crew members' relief. In the long, dark evenings, he spirits to his usual corner in the comm tower, typically joined by Jopson within the hour. They pass the evening with Edward going through the channels, Jopson quietly observing, and the spaces in between filled with slow bites of food and their conversation. At first, they talk of the station and their jobs. Jopson recounts dry updates of Collins’s work in the greenhouse or another case of pneumonia in the medbay. As the days pass, they start to ask about each other, about why they came to work at an Antarctic station, their jobs before, their families and homes, and what they look forward to the most when they return—that brittle yet unyielding hope lodged into the heart of every person at Terror.

“I miss sushi,” Jopson suddenly says during a lull in their conversation as Edward holds the headphones to his ear, listening to nothing but the gurgle of static.

Taken aback, Edward can’t stop a breathy giggle bursting from him. “You what?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But I’m serious,” Jopson insists, his grin turning wistful. “There was this tiny sushi bar a couple blocks from my flat. It was halfway down an alley, and you had to _know_ it was there to see it. A friend of mine took me there one day, and it changed my life.”

Edward’s shoulders are shaking from silent laughter as he shakes his head, carefully changing the channel on the radio.

He feels Jopson’s foot jostle the side of his chair.

“What about you?” Jopson asks. “What do you miss?”

“I can’t say I share your culinary longings,” Edward quips with a toothy grin.

“What, then?” Jopson shrugs, looking off into the darkness of the windows. “It can be anything: sleeping in your own bed, tropical beach vacations, a girlfriend?”

Edward’s smile falters, and he shakes his head ruefully. “Ah, no girlfriend. Not with my career choice.”

Jopson’s smile lessens, a serious set to his mouth even as his eyes still shine with the kindness and sincerity that Edward is learning to accept as an effortless part of Jopson’s character.

“I miss my dogs,” Edward confesses after an interlude of thought. “Cooper was the baby, only a year old, a bloodhound mutt mix. He loved to lie in my lap even if he was all legs and too big for that. Mabel was older and a spoiled rotten diva, really standoffish. But she always slept at the foot of my bed and would nudge the palm of my hand when she wanted pets. I, uh, I left both of them with my sister before I came here.”

Jopson’s lips quirk in a sheepish smile. “I feel like a right ass now to complain about food.”

“Well, you’re not,” Edward assures him as he sets down the headphones, finished for the evening. “I’m sure you miss your family and significant other as much as any ordinary person. Do you have any pets?

Jopson shakes his head. “No. When my brother and I were kids, Luke _begged_ mum for a cat of our own. She compromised and got him a goldfish, and it was dead within three weeks. Luke was devastated, and that was the end of any pets in our household. He was just a little kid, too. I feel bad it ended like that.”

Edward smiles, thinking of his own siblings. “How old is your brother now?”

“Nineteen. He was starting uni when I came here.”

Left unspoken were both of their ruminations on the current state of their families or their homes—if there were any people or homes left.

Caught in a small surge of courage and uncontrollable curiosity, Edward asks, “And do you have a girlfriend waiting back home?”

Jopson holds his gaze for a long time, brow furrowed, as if trying to solve some complicated equation, before he smiles slowly and easily. “No. I don’t.”

Edward cannot describe the dancing in his stomach as either nervous or joyful, but when Jopson wishes him a good night and squeezes his shoulder, Edward feels the skin under his clothes tingling for hours after as he turns off the lamp in the tower, as he descends the stairs below, and as he lies in his cot, chasing sleep and ignoring the stir in his loins.

A week later, everyone at the station has gathered in the observatory where they have opened the sunshield above them and carried in chairs, games, food, and drinks. It was Fitzjames’s suggestion that all of them take the day off—save the most necessary of duties at the station—to enjoy one another’s company when the sun returned for her brief wink of light on the horizon.

Diggle has made a sumptuous feast from their frozen supply of ham and turkey, vegetables seasoned so as to mask their life from a can, and plenty of beverages both to warm their hands and their bellies. Edward does not remember the last time that everyone on the station was together at once, probably a debriefing before they set off on airplane and ship to arrive to their southern polar destination. Even then, Edward recalls that he did not meet the likes of Blanky, Jopson, or Silna before he arrived at Terror, so perhaps this night was a first for many things.

He is leaning against a wall, a cup of cider in hand, as he half listened to Fitzjames regale Le Vesconte and Irving about his time as a young graduate studying military history in China and the rather questionable activities a young and unsupervised grad student would get up to overseas. Edward is hardly paying attention, only nodding or smiling or even chuckling at the right times so as to seem part of the conversation.

His eyes keep drifting to the other side of the room where Peglar, Hartnell, Goodsir, Silna, and Jopson are crowded around a small coffee table, their knees tucked close to their chests as they sit on folded blankets and pillows. They are engaged in a heated game of poker—betting squares of chocolate instead of money. Crozier and Blanky sit a few feet away on one of the couches brought to the observatory, each man throwing his commentary into the mix. Edward feels the corners of his lips tug upward as he watches Peglar and Jopson ribbing Goodsir about his terrible poker face. Goodsir takes the jokes in stride, and despite his utter inability to keep his face from twitching or his eyes widening every time he draws a card, he manages to present a full house at the end of the game.

Before Goodsir can properly enjoy his victory or take the small pile of chocolate, however, Silna places her cards on the table with a small but beaming smirk on her face.

Peglar lets out a whoop that dissolves into a laugh as he leans back onto his palms. Jopson shakes his head while smiling and tosses his hand onto the table, not even bothering to show the cards.

“What? How?!” Hartnell’s astonished cry fills the room.

“And she strikes again! Three games in a row!” Blanky crows from his spot on the couch. He raises his mug. “I salute you, Lady Silence.”

Edward watches as Silna pulls the chocolate to her side of the table. The others stand, stretching out the kinks in their legs and backs. Silna reaches out for Goodsir’s hand, gently pulling him back down before he leaves. She takes his hand and places a couple of the wrapped chocolate squares into his hand. The shared look of tenderness between them sends a spike of envy through Edward’s gut, and again, his gaze seeks out Jopson where the other man leans against the couch, exchanging words with Crozier that Edward cannot hear.

Edward desperately wills his feet to move forward, to find any excuse to join their conversation, to talk and laugh as effortlessly as they do with each other. When Crozier’s hand lightly slaps and rests a second on Jopson’s thigh, Edward manages to tear his eyes away.

“Hard to believe that our resident biologist is such an astute card player, eh, Ed?” Irving’s voice cuts through him like a coal-hot accusation.

Edward blanches, a moment of paranoid panic where he imagines that his fixation on Jopson was obvious to everyone else in the room. He only feels relief when glances over at Irving to see a wistful expression on the man’s face as he looks in the direction of Goodsir and Silna, perhaps feeling the same envy that coursed through Edward only seconds ago.

Edward ducks his head and abandons his drink on the table behind them.

“Excuse me,” he mumbles, as he retrieves his parka from the hooks near the door and makes a hasty exit.

First sunrise be damned. Edward needs some space. He finds that the longer he is at the isolated station, he loathes and craves the solitude all the same. By habit, he finds himself climbing the stairs to the comm tower. He knows that he uses the radio as an excuse; easier to mask his discomfort around his fellow crew members by feigning altruistic measures such as searching for news of the outside world or of any remnant humanity.

Enclosed in the familiar chill of the comm tower, headphones pressed against his ear, the fluorescent lamp still swaying from its hook above him, Edward can brush aside his childish crush on Jopson as a symptom of abject loneliness. Nothing more.

Edward goes through each of the channels, methodically, near obsessively, eight times, and all that meets his ears is static. Tonight, infected by the optimism brought by the return of the sun, he speaks into the microphone.

Name: _Edward Little._ Date: _23 rd of September. _Time: _Approximately 16:00._ Location: _Terror Research Station_. And the most persisting question of all: _Is anyone out there? Is anyone still alive?_

Sending out a dove, he hopes that one day the damn bird will bring back an olive branch.

There is a rapid, triple knock on the door, and Edward knows who it is before he sees the trademark black hair, pale blue eyes. He has come to recognize even the man’s footfalls as Jopson enters the room, taking his usual seat and holding up a cup for Edward and one for himself.

“You’re missing the fun downstairs,” Jopson chides lightly. “Irving likes to sing—badly—when he’s drunk. I made it through about two and half songs before I came looking for you.”

An indescribable lightness flutters in Edward’s chest, and for a selfish moment, he doesn’t care about the sunrise or the others. He wants to keep this scene frozen in time, frame the exact second when the man who has consumed Edward’s every waking thought the last few weeks would leave the highlight of Terror’s long, dark summer to be here. With him.

Their fingers graze when Jopson hands him the cup, and Edward feels fire down to the bone.

“I’m glad to see your ears aren’t bleeding,” Edward says with his lips around the edge of the cup.

“Not _yet_. I might have sustained some damage,” Jopson states with faux severity.

Edward takes a sip from the cup and surprised to taste the acidic tang of coffee. He pauses and looks over at Jopson who is watching him carefully, his top lip pulled in before he smiles and drops his eyes.

“I finally found out how you take it,” he says; “with just cream, no sugar? Is it all right?”

“It’s perfect.” Edward takes another, longer sip.

“Good.” Jopson beams, self-consciously swiping at a strand of his hair. He glances at his watch. “First sunrise should be here any minute now. Too bad we’ll miss it with the others.”

Edward looks out the windows, dark save the dimmest, gray twilight in the air.

“We’ll have a better view from here, probably,” he muses. An idea strikes him, and he stands up, shutting off the fluorescent lamp so that only the red glow of the emergency lamp from over the door illuminates the room.

He sits back down, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light as he stares out into the darkness where the shape of the out buildings and the landscape slowly turn visible as the horizon begins to lighten. Stars dot the sky in a brilliant cobweb of swirling patterns. The stars closest to the horizon disappear one by one as the sun fast approaches. An arm gently bumps against his, not an accident of proximity. Edward swallows, his eyes facing forward, and lets his arm dangle beside Jopson’s. The back of his palm brushes against Jopson’s coat, and with a curiosity he has not afforded himself previously, he trails his fingers down Jopson’s sleeve until they find an open and inviting palm. Their hands close together. Edward releases a breath he did not realize he was holding and squeezes Jopson’s hand fiercely.

The mountains in the distant are painted orange and red as the sun dances a tiny circle in a corner of the sky before continuing her ascent out of sight. The tiny room in the comm tower feels larger with the cheery return of their planet’s star.

“It’s nice, seeing the sun again,” Edward murmurs.

“Yeah.”

Fingers tighten against his. Edward looks back at Jopson to see those pale blue eyes focused intently on him, the faint light from the sun making them even more startling. Edward’s gaze traces the shape of Jopson’s face in a way that he couldn’t fully appreciate before, in shadow and darkness, and the harsh illumination of artificial light. He pauses on Jopson’s lips, feels his heart—his traitorous, too honest heart—beat faster in his chest, and before he can stop himself, he leans forward. He hesitates, just a second, but Jopson erases any doubt in Edward’s mind when he grips a hand into the collar of his coat and pulls him forward the last few inches until their lips meet.

It’s sweet, chaste even. Jopson’s lips feel warm and dry under his, and with a catch in the back of his throat, Edward pushes more, sliding one of his hands against Jopson’s stubbled cheek and to the back of his neck. Jopson grins into the kiss and gently nips Edward’s bottom lip before pressing his open mouth against Edward’s, inviting his tongue in. Edward loses himself in the sensation; from Jopson, a long sigh melts into a moan.

When the kiss ends, the sun is gone once more, obscured behind a mountain, and the pair are plunged into cloying grayness, dark but not absolute. Edward presses their foreheads together. Jopson’s hands trail down Edward’s sides, sliding against the fabric of his trousers as Jopson nuzzles his face, bumping their noses together.

The silence stretches between them, both men unwilling to be the first to break it and force them back to reality.

Jopson finds his voice, the volume hardly above a whisper.

“Everyone else is probably still in the observatory, and as much as I would love to continue this in freezing temperatures, the dorms are likely empty.”

It was invitation enough for Edward, and hooking a couple of his fingers with Jopson, Edward shyly leads him downstairs, through the hallway by the cafeteria, past the medbay, past the laboratory, into the first floor dorms, and to his room. He self-consciously stares at the floor as he latches the door behind them and turns on the small space heater. The room itself is spartan in its furnishings as Edward spends most of his time elsewhere on the station. He keeps it tidy, though, and when he sits on the made bed, Jopson easily slots himself between his legs and tilts his face up to kiss his cheeks, his chin, and finally his mouth.

Edward reaches around Jopson, his hands digging into his back, and he falls back, pulling Jopson with him. Pressed hip to hip, chest to chest, Edward feels the heat radiating off of Jopson and eagerly rucks up Jopson’s shirt, slipping his hands onto the smooth skin of his sides and across the wiry hairs on his belly. Jopson leans up long enough to fully remove his coat, his jumper, and the undershirt, and Edward leans up on his elbow to clumsily follow his example. From where he is straddling Edward’s legs, Jopson stares down at Edward, dragging his eyes up Edward’s torso and replacing his gaze with his hands and mouth. Edward tips his head back, eyes closing, soft moans spilling from his lips as Jopson kisses a trail past his navel, to his sternum, to his nipple, his collarbone, and stopping at his neck where he laps and sucks until Edward is a panting, quivering mess.

Edward rolls his hips up to meet Jopson, and gasping, Jopson presses his hands against Edward’s thighs. His fingers curl in the firm muscle there. He leans over Edward, kissing his nose.

“Hate to break the mood,” he says, the smile evident in his voice, “but do you have condoms?”

Edward blinks up at Jopson and snort laughs. “Ah, no. No, I don’t.”

Jopson bobs his head and pats Edward on the side. “Okay. Good. There is definitely no not-awkward way of getting those from the medbay later.”

 _Later_. Edward’s breath quickens at the word, innocent as it is. Emboldened by the promise of this being no one-night stand, no unleashing of mutual loneliness, no ridiculous last man on earth scenario, Edward sits up and gives Jopson a long, searing kiss.

“We’ll manage tonight, won’t we?” he whispers gruffly against Jopson’s hot mouth.

The rest of the night is spent under the woolen covers of the bed, curled side by side, their heads sharing the one pillow, their moans interspersed with soft laughter as they press against each other, legs entwined, fingers deftly rubbing against sensitive skin and curling against sweet spots until both of them are sated, wrapped in each other’s arms, half-asleep, the sweat cooling on their skin.

The next morning, Edward is greeted by the relaxed, still sleeping face of Jopson. Edward wakes him by running his hands through his hair, kissing his brow, and whispering _Tom_ softly in his ear until Jopson stirs enough to slightly open his eyes and give Edward a drowsy smile. Dressing takes twice as long as they interrupt themselves with frequent kisses and long embraces, but eventually, Jopson leaves Edward’s dorm for his own, determined to _change my clothes, regain my dignity, and shower before breakfast_.

Edward floats through the rest of the morning, that even Irving comments on his smile from his computer as he processes the telescope's readings from the previous night. Edward shrugs and allows Irving to assume that the general good mood is from the party last night.

It _is,_ in a way, so keeping his privacy doesn’t feel like a lie.

Later, he has adopted his usual post in the comm tower. He goes through each of the channels, but he feels an antsy energy making him bounce his leg, tap his knuckles on the table, and keep his mind preoccupied with the person he has waited all day to see again.

His patience is awarded as Jopson arrives a half hour later with the usual coffee cups but accompanied with a charged intent that he didn’t have before. Edward thanks him for the coffee and continues his work at the radio, but he is comforted Jopson’s presence beside him. He huffs when Jopson plops one of his legs onto his lap, and Edward gives Jopson’s calf a brisk rub as Jopson hides a wicked grin behind his coffee cup.

“No dinner today? I thought you were trying to fatten me up,” Edward remarks, turning to face Jopson.

Jopson rolls his eyes, a fond but exasperated look on his face. “Diggle is still making dinner, and you know, it wouldn’t kill you to eat downstairs with everyone else for once.”

Edward is about to make some clever retort when the radio crackles to life.

Edward jumps and leans forward so quickly that his chair nearly pushes from under him. He pulls the headphones fully on, and trying to keep his hands steady, he turns the dial, searching frantically for the source of the disturbance.

It’s there.

A voice. Female. Non-English. Three or four short phrases.

Edward listens to it, frowning as he concentrates on the words. Jopson stands beside him, watching him, waiting for news of the transmission. The message stops. There are a few seconds of static. The message starts over. Edward shakes his head and takes the headphones off.

“I can’t understand it. It’s not in English,” Edward explains.

He holds the headphones up to Jopson who puts them and listens to the message a couple times.

“Dutch, maybe Afrikaans?” he suggests once he takes the headphones off.

“I’ll try to message back,” Edward says. He brings the microphone to his lips, trying to speak slowly, clearly. “My name is Edward Little, communications and radio specialist at Terror Research Station of the British Antarctic Survey. We are located near latitude sixty-seven south, longitude sixty-eight west. Respond with your current status. Over.”

His fingers twitch at the dials, nervously waiting to hear a response. He deflates when the pre-recorded message starts playing again. He sits back in his chair and shakes his head when his eyes meet Jopson’s expectant gaze.

“It’s just the same message.” He sighs and is about to take the headphones off when the message is interrupted mid-sentence with a soft, hesitant _hallo?_

This time, Edward’s chair does fall over. He near yells in surprise, and he leaps to his feet, pulling the cord of the headphones taut. He grabs Jopson by the shoulders and yanks him into a tight hug before kissing him. Jopson is wide-eyed but smiling confusedly at him when he steps back.

“Someone answered,” Edward says, his eyes shining.

Jopson grins and squeezes Edward’s hand on his shoulder. He starts for the door.

“I’ll get the professors,” he calls behind him as he runs down the stairs.

Edward fixes the headphones on his ears, the small voice on the other end speaking again, in slow, stilted English. With the return of the sun came many things, most of all the hope that not all was dead and crumbling outside of their Antarctic island.

With a smile—small, watery, hopeful, and a little scared—Edward presses the button on the radio with trembling hands and brings the microphone back to his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the full coordinates of 67°34′06″S 68°07′33″W are the location of the BAS base Rothera Research Station, upon which Terror station is loosely, loosely based.


End file.
